"Really?" Darby stared, his obvious joy tempered with awe. "You'd do that for me?"
"What sort of knight would I be if I didn't help someone in need?"
"But I'm not really-" Darby started. Then, apparently realizing he was talking himself out of a princely escort, he let the argument drop. "Thank you. Thank you so much, sir." He hurried off to finish loading the cart.
Ra-khir removed Silver Warrior's bridle to allow his loyal white stallion to graze. He continued to study the battlefield until he spotted a string of haze floating toward the sky. He followed it to the smoldering remains of a massive pyre. Wet ash filled a hole apparently hacked into the ground using the discarded helmets of Northmen, which now lay, filthy and abandoned, near the hole. A slurry of charcoal and charred bones filled the pit, leaving nothing identifiable in the way of clothing, soft tissues, or features. Renshai had built it, Ra-khir felt certain. Clearly, they had won the battle, cremated their dead, then moved on, leaving the Northmen's broken bodies for the crows, dogs, and buzzards to devour.
And the Northmen either had no survivors or those had retreated too far away to tend their own dead. Yet. If they existed, Ra-khir hoped they did not return before Darby collected his spoils. He did not want to oversee disputes over whether or not the boy had taken something of value or desecrated their dead. Darby clearly meant no disrespect and had obeyed the laws of property abandonment.
Tears welled in Ra-khir's eyes as he stared into the pit, watching gray ash curl in the wind. The smoke had withered to a trickle, and no clear fire remained. That meant at least a few hours, more likely a few days, had passed since the pyre was lit. He wondered whose scorched bones still occupied that pit, whose organs formed the ash, whose teeth still clung to their smoldering jaws. A scavenger might find some lumps of melted coins in the heap, but not a single sword. Those required loving restoration, if necessary, and the honor of use. In the best circumstances, they would go to a relative or to a child named after the deceased in tribute.
Saviar might lie in there, Ra-khir realized. Or Calistin. That seemed far less likely. He found it impossible to consider his youngest's death, not only because of his preternatural sword talent, but because people of Calistin's temperament never seemed to die young.
Saviar seemed a far more likely victim of the Northmen's attack, not quite yet a man by Renshai standards, never having experienced a real battle. Ra-khir felt the familiar cold touch of despair, but this time he did not succumb to it. He had no way of knowing the fate of his sons, and it did no good to mourn in ignorance. Until he received word of their deaths, from a reliable source, he had no choice but to believe he could still find them alive.
Ra-khir stepped back from the pit. The quiet stillness of the forest, the gentle breeze caressing the leaves all seemed to belie the grotesqueness of the scene in front of him. Once again, he glanced over the corpses: the sightless eyes, the bloodless faces, the bits of gore splattering the ground and tree trunks. One, in particular caught his attention, a Northman's headless torso, the neck hacked to pieces, clearly after death. Here, someone had vented his anger in a burst of violence so bloody it brought to mind the ancient accusations against the Renshai tribe that had led to their initial banishment.
Ra-khir turned away. There was nothing more he could glean from the carnage. He headed back to find Darby with a well-loaded cart, still stuffing coppers into his pocket.
The boy looked up at Ra-khir's approach. "I'm ready when you are, sir."
Ra-khir nodded. Though relatively small, the cartload dwarfed the even tinier donkey. He whistled for Silver Warrior, who came to him at a brisk trot.
It seemed like sacrilege to hitch up the magnificent steed like a common cart horse, and it would take an inordinate amount of time to jury-rig a harness and larger traces. "I'll follow," Ra-khir said, replacing the bridle. Silver Warrior held perfectly still as the tack fell into its accustomed place. The knight flicked the reins over Silver Warrior's ears, seized the saddle, and mounted. "If you would please tell me where we're going."
Darby watched the interaction between knight and steed with obvious interest before taking his own place at the donkey's head. "Keatoville." Grabbing the cheekpiece of a crude rope halter, he urged the donkey forward. It strained at the harness. "It's just a short walk east and south."
Ra-khir coaxed Silver Warrior forward until his chest bumped the wagon, providing enough momentum to get the donkey moving. The cart groaned, threatening to shatter, and the wheels creaked in protest.
Soon, they settled into a pattern, the donkey trotting easily, the horse pushing from behind, the wheels squealing in a steady rhythm. The boy marched at the head, whistling. He looked back frequently to meet Ra-khir's gaze, apparently to reassure himself that the knight remained with them and was having no difficulties. Ra-khir appreciated the boy's misplaced concern. Darby was clearly accustomed to responsibility, presumably from serving as the man of his family.
Silver Warrior occasionally snorted at the slow pace of the wagon, and Ra-khir quelled his own impatience. Darby moved at a reasonably brisk pace, paying close attention to the donkey's comfort. The little animal lathered quickly, turning its hide a dark brown, but its head never sagged and its hooves drummed a steady pace on the packed dirt roadway.
Worried for Darby, Ra-khir had just thought to suggest a stop for lunch when the not-too-distant sound of a cocking crossbow captured his full attention. He scanned the roadway and forest, finding nothing.
Darby stopped moving and pointed toward a rocky outcropping ahead and to their left. "There."
Ra-khir squinted. Bright sunlight blurred two figures, but the crossbows looked clear enough. The sound of another cocking came from a copse of bushes to Ra-khir's right.
Releasing the donkey, Darby edged toward Ra-khir. "What should we do?" he whispered.
Ra-khir cleared his throat. As a Knight of Erythane, he had the kingdoms of Erythane and Bearn at his back. What would Kedrin do? Ra-khir knew exactly how his Knight-Captain father would handle the situation, yet it seemed foolish with lives at stake. A Knight of Erythane always chooses the right way, not the easy way. He hissed back at Darby, "Do what you think best. I'll follow your lead as I can."
Darby stared in stunned amazement, mouth gaping. Then, his jaw snapped closed, and he nodded his head decisively. "What do you bandits want from honest men in broad daylight?"
Two men stepped from the forest on the right side of the pathway. These did not carry bows, both large and burly, armed with swords and axes. Their clothes were filthy, their hair snarled with burrs, their faces scratched and scarred. "Honest men, eh? I see a junk boy with a cartload of goodies that don't look like his'n."
"They're my… 'n," Darby affected the dialect of the highwayman. "If you doubt it, you need only ask the Knight of Erythane riding behind me."
Every bandit eye went to Ra-khir.
Ra-khir saw the utter futility in introducing himself in this situation. "They're his…" he could not help adding, " 'n." In his cultured tone, the colloquialism sounded positively ludicrous.
No one laughed.
"That ain't no knight," one bandit growled.
The other nudged him with an elbow. "I think it is, Nat. Look at 'im."
"Ain't no knight gonna be travelin' with this young punk."
Seeing no way to avoid it now, Ra-khir swept off his hat. "Sir Ra-khir Kedrin's son, Knight to the Erythanian and Bearnian kings: His Grace, King Humfreet and His Majesty, King Griff." He replaced his hat, studying the men in front of him. He could take them, he realized, both of them. The crossbowmen, however, were another matter.